The Prince
by snarryvader81
Summary: With Lord Grindelwald's horcrux gone, Harry Riddle expected his second year to be more normal than his first. That was, until his father's diary happened to find its way into the hands of one of the student body. Sequel to my other story, 'Harry Riddle'.
1. Prologue

"It is much safer to be feared than loved when one of the two must be lacking." - Niccolo Machiavelli, _The Prince_

1943

Abraxas Malfoy smiled nastily, flipping the neatly wrapped present in his hands up into the air and letting it fall heavily on the common room couch.

"I know that smile," said a quiet voice from the other side of the room. "You're plotting something dreadful, Malfoy, aren't you? I haven't seen you this happy since you set Aurelius Potter's invisibility cloak on fire."

Malfoy feigned shock. "Me? Plot something? And you make it sound _sinister_ . . ."

Eileen looked up sharply from her book (a huge, leather bound tome with an ominous air about it) and rolled her eyes. "You're always plotting something. What's your problem with Weasley, anyway?"

Abraxas sniffed. "He's aspiring above his station."

"As if that's the real reason," she said, pursing her lips. She unceremoniously threw her book down on the floor and stood, striding over and grabbing the present off the couch. She shook it and frowned at the sound of multiple little objects clanging dully against the sides.

". . . Chocolates?" she ventured, slowly sniffing the wrapping to detect a sweet smell.

"I'm sure that gigantic nose of yours will tell you," he said nastily. She glared at him, flinging her hair over her shoulder.

Shaking it one last time, she abruptly heaved it over at the blond, who stumbled backwards from the sheer force of the impact.

"Didn't know you were so sensitive about your looks, Prince!" he snapped, catching his footing and grabbing the present out of reflex.

"I'm not," she insisted, only to change the subject hastily. "So, what's with the present? Decided to finally get yourself a girlfriend?"

He laughed shortly. "As if I would have any trouble with that!"

"Oh yeah?!" she snapped. "Then why don't you?"

"Because . . . because . . . all the girls in this school are money grubbing whores! Present company included!"

She almost bared her teeth in a snarl but settled for tightening her hands into fists at her sides. "Oh, yeah? I think you're still single because you've got a crush on Riddle! I bet you'd just love to take him to the Room of Require—"

She almost continued, but both of them seemed to realize at the same time that the aforementioned Riddle was actually _in the same room as them_ and their eyes widened.

"—ment," she rasped, spinning around to look to a shadowy spot near the fireplace, where Tom Marvolo Riddle sat. However, he didn't seem to even be aware of their presence; his legs were pulled up tightly to his chest and he stared almost glassily down at something in his lap.

Eileen and Abraxas blinked at him, then turned and blinked at each other.

"You don't suppose he's drugged?" she finally whispered, glancing back over at him. "You know Avery's been peddling something to the seventh years . . . I heard John Lupin accidently drank some and ended up in the hospital wing for two weeks."

Abraxas snorted ungracefully. "Serves all of them right for buying something like that from someone as stupid as Avery."

Eileen nodded. "His potions grade is abysmal."

"So it can't be that, Riddle's too smart. And he's a sixth year, anyway."

They turned back to Tom and stared for a long moment, both trying to make out what he was holding on his lap.

"Maybe he's studying."

"Maybe . . ."

"We've got that essay to write for divinations, you know. The one where you're supposed to predict your own future. It's due tomorrow. I said I was going to become a world famous quidditch player, date the Prince of Wales, and then tragically overdose on Felix Felicis in a train station bathroom."

He looked at her in annoyance. "There _is_ no current Prince of Wales. Even _I_ know that much."

She sniffed. "Then maybe I'll date Princess Elizabeth. What did you write?"

"I said I'd become the Minister of Magic, cause an inordinate amount of scandal, father many illegitimate children, and finally die of alcoholism."

"Oh, so you want to follow in your father's footsteps? How touching."

"Shut up, Prince," he growled, finally gathering the determination to walk over to Riddle and clear his throat at him.

The other boy didn't look up, but Abraxas finally was able to see that he seemed to be enthralled with a small book that sat closed on the tops of his slanted thighs. The cover was plain and brown, with no writing he could see, yet Riddle was staring at it as if it was the key to immortality.

"Tom," he tried, this time with an accompanying snap of fingers from Eileen, who had followed him over and stuck her hand over his shoulder.

It was as if they didn't even exist, judging from Riddle's nonexistent reaction to them.

"Voldemort!" he finally shouted, waving his hand directly in front of Tom's eyes.

Finally, Riddle blinked.

Looking up from the book, he angrily managed a simple "What?!"

Abraxas cleared his throat, glanced at Eileen, and shrugged. "Nothing. Just wondering what you wanted for your birthday. New Year's is coming up, after all. Will it be a sweet sixteen or a big, legally adult seventeen? I'm afraid I don't recall."

Riddle looked even more annoyed than he had before. "Sweet sixteens are for girls only, and I'm going to be seventeen, anyway."

"Good! Congratulations, now you can actually apparate legally! Do you want me to buy you a license?" He paused thoughtfully. "You know, with the amount of times you've illegally done it, I think you're eligible to be put in Azkaban for a few years."

"You have to pay for your license?" asked Eileen, looking a bit disheartened at the thought of it.

Abraxas shrugged. "My father said you never used to—apparently it's for the war effort. Bloody Grindelwald."

Eileen still looked disappointed, and Malfoy smirked.

"Oh, don't worry, Prince. I'll buy you one, too, since we all know your father's so incredibly destitute he has to bathe in a creek and hunt his own food. It must be difficult living in a shack down the by river."

Hurt flashed across her features briefly before it turned to anger.

"At least my mother isn't always so incredibly smashed she can't walk in a straight line without falling over herself!"

Malfoy looked as if he'd been struck but quickly lashed back. "At least my father doesn't knock my mother around!"

"How dare you mention that," she hissed, the hurt look returning. "But—but at least my father doesn't chase every single skirt he lays eyes on."

"Your parents just sound charming," Tom cut in impatiently, "but could you take it somewhere else?"

Eileen and Abraxas traded glances again.

"But . . . we're worried about you, Tom," Eileen said quickly. "Uh, you seem . . . a bit . . ."

"Distracted," said Abraxas.

She nodded vigorously. "Distracted!" She carefully looked at the book in his lap, biting her lip.

"What's that?" she finally asked, reaching out to touch it.

Before she could make contact, he reached out and slapped her hand away.

"Doesn't matter," he snapped, abruptly standing up and walking over to the couch, where he sat. "Why don't you two go to dinner? I'm sure it's almost time."

"Well . . ." Abraxas began hesitantly, "okay, but . . . aren't you coming with us? It's Christmas Eve dinner, after all . . ."

"I'm feeling a bit under the weather," he said simply, looking a bit uncomfortable. "Just have one of the House Elves bring me something, will you?"

Abraxas sighed. "Whatever you say, Voldemort."

There was a long, extremely awkward pause, but then Abraxas flipped the present up into the air again and he and Eileen started towards the exit.

"So, who's it for?" she demanded.

"Septimus Weasley."

She looked shocked. "Merlin, Malfoy, I was just kidding yesterday about you wanting to get Weasley alone in the—"

He glared at her as they came to the door and paused. "I charmed the tag to be in dear Cedrella Black's handwriting."

She frowned in confusion. "Oh."

Then smiled as realization hit. "_Oh_! You did something to them!"

Abraxas smiled back and opened the door. "Me? Do something nefarious? Never!"

The door shut loudly behind them, and Tom Riddle was happy to see them go. Pulling his wand out of his pocket, he carefully warded the room and even then looked around suspiciously, as if he expected someone to be hiding in the shadows.

He supposed he was becoming a bit paranoid, but even that was better than being careless. If _anyone_ found out what he had done, he wouldn't only be immediately expelled, but taken away to Azkaban and given the Dementor's Kiss.

Murder was one thing. He hadn't even really meant for the fool girl to die; he hadn't known she was there. It was negligent homicide at best—if he got a trial, he wouldn't receive life imprisonment.

But what he'd done after . . .

Hesitantly, he put the book down on the low coffee table in front of him and opened it. It had once been something of a diary or journal, something he'd used to vent his most private thoughts. But now, all of the writing had disappeared; the pages were blank.

It had been almost frighteningly simple to make a horcrux. Murder by proxy, a spell, an object to receive the fragment of his soul . . .

He wondered if he was immortal now. He'd read _Secrets of the Darkest Art_ several times, and it claimed that at this point he was. Even if he was mortally wounded, his spirit and mind would live on and be able to take possession of another body, or even recreate his original one.

He supposed that was . . . comforting. In third year, they'd had a unit on Boggarts in Defense Against the Dark Arts, and when one had finally been brought into the classroom, he'd almost screamed at the sight of his own dead body, which the creature had seen fit to manifest as when it had been his turn to confront it.

Especially after that incident, he couldn't deny that he feared death more than anything. And this almost ensured that he would never have to face it.

But then, why did he feel so empty? So horribly . . . cold inside? The spell hadn't been simple to cast, but he'd been successful on his first try. The pain had been immediately there, agonizing in its intensity; he'd collapsed to the floor and was helpless as his soul ripped itself apart. It was physical but somehow spiritual as well, like something vital was being taken away, part of his identity.

He'd probably screamed, but he couldn't remember. It had only been a few weeks ago, but the memory had already dissolved into a blur of faded sensations he didn't like to dwell on. He'd passed out at some point and woken up sprawled on the floor next to his bed, sweaty and exhausted and shaking from the leftover pain.

And then he'd realized that he was . . . changed. Not physically, but perhaps emotionally, mentally? It was as if he was drained of everything he'd ever felt; the small amount of guilt and regret over Myrtle's death was gone, any warm emotions towards Abraxas and Eileen were faded, almost vanished. They'd been his first actual friends, and for all their fighting they'd been very close for the past six years. He'd cared about them, at least, as friends should care for each other.

But now they were nothing to him. He couldn't care less about them.

He couldn't care less about _anyone_.

He always knew he'd been different than other people, even different from others with magic. Sometimes, he just didn't . . . _worry_ about others, or their feelings. Sometimes, he enjoyed hurting people. Took more pleasure in it than was, perhaps, appropriate.

But it had never been like this.

He was suddenly hollow. And so, so very cold inside.

And he wasn't sure if he liked it.

Slowly picking a carelessly discarded quill up off of the table, he let it hover above the blank page for a long moment.

Finally, he pressed the tip to the paper.

_I feel so cold, _he wrote, disregarding any type of 'dear diary'. _Why don't I care about my friends anymore?_

He paused, his fingers unconsciously tightening around the quill until it snapped under the pressure. He let it fall to the table, his eyes trained on the journal and wide with shock and dread.

It was writing back.

He watched as letters slowly formed, in his own handwriting, and felt lead settle in his chest as he read the reply.

_That is the price you pay._

And for the first time, he wondered what, exactly, he'd done to himself.

_

_

Author's Note: No, I'm not actually dead. I just go through these long periods where I don't really have the will to post anything new. I call them my little 'unsocial times'. Anyway, as I think I said I would on the epilogue of Harry Riddle, I started this off with a flashback, just to kind of show what Tom was doing during his years at Hogwarts and what happened after the creation of his first horcrux. I have flashback-philia.

I've quite randomly decided to name this sequel 'The Prince', for really no reason at all except there's a lot of totally awesome Voldemort-y quotes that could be found in that particular book. I obviously thought about naming it 'Harry Riddle and the Chamber of Secrets', but then I decided I should put *some* effort into it.

Ahem. Anyway, I'll try to update as frequently as I can.

Anna


	2. Because All Latin Chanting Is Ominous

July 30, 1992

It was the ominous Latin chanting that awoke him, ripping him unceremoniously out of a familiar dream of green light and red hair and cruel laughter. For several long moments he laid there in the dark, tangled in sweaty sheets and staring up at the finely textured ceiling as he listened to a multitude of different voices speaking in rhythmic unison. He couldn't tell what they were saying (he didn't speak Latin that well) or even what spell it was (if he did know, he was too tired to remember), but it was occasionally punctuated by agonized screams or Bellatrix's wild, insane laughter, so he came to the conclusion it couldn't be anything good.

This went on for quite some time—him lying there, largely unblinking as the voices lulled him into a state somewhere between sleeping and waking, still aware but not really _conscious_. However, around the third time he suddenly came physically jerking back away from sleep, his entire body jolting of its own accord, he finally found the will to throw the covers off and sit up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed.

The charmed clock on the wall of his bedroom told him that it was much too early for anyone decent to be awake, but he knew very well that Lord Voldemort and the Death Eaters never had and never would qualify as 'decent' and therefore could care less about whose sleep they interrupted during the course of their dark rituals.

Harry decided to follow their lead and go and bother Draco, stumbling out of bed and across the room towards the fireplace, the cold wood floor uncomfortable against the bottoms of his feet. It was the middle of summer and, as of the last time he had been outside a matter of hours ago at twilight, rather warm, so he could only guess that the Death Eaters were currently performing some_ extremely_ black magic.

It was even chilly by the fireplace, the atmosphere around the flickering flames almost feeling like a draft coming off of cold water. He quickly picked up the powder and threw it in, flinching as the flames snapped upward and turned green.

"Draco Malfoy's bedroom's antechamber," he rasped, tucking in his elbows and stepping through. The world spun rapidly, fire and grating flying past, and then he was stumbling out onto Draco's marble hearth, narrowly avoiding banging into a set of gold plated fireplace tools.

Shaking ash off of himself, he stepped down onto the hardwood and tiptoed across the room to the nearest door, which he quietly pushed open. Draco's bedroom was huge, larger than Harry's, and full of expensive furnishings, the largest of which was a canopy bed off to the left hand side. Draco was sleeping soundly, the covers pulled up to his chin and his face mashed into the pillow.

Harry took another door, which led into a massive bathroom. The pristine tile floor glittered pleasantly at him in the dim light of the candle burning on the sink's counter, as did a half-empty glass of water sitting next to the gold faucet.

He picked it up, emptied it, and because he was feeling particularly vindictive, turned the tap to _cold_. Soon the glass was full and he was back in Draco's room, standing at the head of the bed.

Unceremoniously, he tilted it over.

Draco made a high, shocked, strangled noise and shot up, throwing the covers off and falling out of bed, where he proceeded to flail wildly. Eventually, however, he calmed down and just stood there, staring at Harry through the wet bangs plastered to his head.

"Beauty sleep's over," said Harry, grinning maliciously.

--

Draco paused, letting the towel lay on his semi-dry head, and clapped his hands. Instantly, a House Elf dressed in a ragged old pillowcase appeared, cowering.

"Yes, yes, what can Dobby do for Masters?" it asked, fidgeting nervously.

"My bed has water on it," he said tersely, throwing his chin up. "Make it so it's dry. And Harry and I would like food."

"Um, what kind of food would the sirs be wanting?"

"Chocolate," said Harry, bouncing eagerly in place on an overstuffed chair. "And pancakes. And eggs, don't forget the eggs. Maybe fried potatoes and butter? And sausage. Lots of sausage."

"Breakfast, elf," snapped Draco. "And be quick about it."

"Dobby be quick!" He promptly disappeared.

"Why are you here?" Draco demanded, his eyes flicking over to a window. Outside, it was pitch black, the only light coming from the moon. "What time is it?"

"Early."

Draco smiled, though it wasn't a very nice one. "Yes. _Early_. That's why I was in my bed, you see, because in England, this is the time when people _sleep_."

"Tell that to my father. And, most probably, your father. And mother. And aunt. They're up chanting some spell or something. Maybe they're trying to summon up a demon again? I don't know. The whole house is freezing and the noise is carrying so clearly it's like they're a room away. So I can't sleep."

"And so you decided to wake _me_ up?" he hissed.

Harry sniffed. "When _I'm_ the Dark Lord one day, Draco, you're going to have to get used to not getting enough sleep. We'll be the ones off performing dark rituals in the middle of the night."

"I'll probably be forty by then. I won't need as much sleep!"

Dobby chose that moment to pop back into the room, bringing with him several trays of food. Harry dug in eagerly, salting the potatoes and then spearing them with his fork.

"Are Masters pleased?" asked Dobby.

"Yes, you irritating little thing," said Draco dismissively, waving him away and removing the lid from a box of milk chocolates. "So you're just here for breakfast, then?"

Harry shrugged, giving a long suffering sigh. "I suppose. Though Bellatrix's laughter was getting on my nerves."

"She was laughing? They must've been doing something _really_ sadistic, then."

"Probably."

They finished their breakfast in relative silence, both of them trying not to picture what, exactly, Bella had found so amusing.

--

The Malfoy Family Library was nothing short of impressive. A huge room, full of towering bookcases, with row after row of books of all sizes and shapes. There were books about every subject one could imagine (save muggles, of course) and even a few books about absolutely nothing at all.

However, despite an exhaustive, summer-long search, Harry had not been able to find a book on Horcruxes, nor even one that _mentioned_ it. He wasn't sure how that could be, how there could be absolutely _no _information on something, but as he finally reached the very last bookcase in the room, he was on verge of having to accept it.

"Why don't you just _ask_ your father about this Horcrux thing?" Draco drawled, tilting his head up to gaze at Harry, who was standing at the top of an extremely tall ladder and perusing the books on the highest shelf.

"Because then he would know I've taken a personal interest in it, and that is not good."

"Why not? I mean, wouldn't it just be natural to be curious? Making a Horcrux means immortal life, right? Almost like drinking from that bloody Stone?"

"Right."

Draco paused, tapping his foot against the ground and looking thoughtful. "Does this mean the Dark Lord is immortal?"

Harry shrugged. "Grindelwald _said_ my father had a Horcrux, but I doubt he actually knew for sure. After all, Dumbledore . . . did whatever it was he did . . . to him in 1945—my father was just a teenager then, and hardly a Dark Lord. And I think Grindelwald was probably too busy possessing people and murdering Unicorns to go haunt him when he did finally rise to power in the 1970s."

"You bought a history book, didn't you?"

Harry sniffed. "So what if I did?"

"But you've got a—a primary source sitting in your living room! Just go ask him!"

"Would _you_ go ask the Dark Lord anything?"

That did quiet Draco, who took to opening the array of wrapped chocolates sitting out on the tables on either side of him and staring with longing out the window. It was raining heavily, which had put a damper on his Quidditch plans and ensured that he would spend the entire day moping around doing nothing.

Harry continued looking, skimming past twenty seven books on the Unforgivable Curses, another three devoted solely to the Killing Curse, and five more focused on the Cruciatus. There were books about the History of the Ministry, books about the various attempts to get Muggle Hunting legalized as a sport (Harry found himself disappointed that they had all failed, as it sounded rather fun), books about notable ancient Dark Wizards and Witches, and one book—

That threw him off the ladder when he attempted to touch it.

He landed hard, his body slamming painfully into the stone floor, while the book fell directly beside his head, making a sharp smacking sound as it impacted.

He was unable to stifle an agonized groan, unintentionally curling in on himself as he tried to ride out the waves of stinging pain washing over his body.

Draco looked over at him with one eye, drawing his tongue along one of the candy wrappers. "Are you okay?" he managed, his voice garbled.

"If I had a wand, Draco," he gritted out. "Merlin, if I had a wand . . ."

"You'd what?"

"I'd Cruciatus you to death," he spat, tentatively attempting to lift his arm. It moved as well as it usually did, if he could get past the (thankfully receding) ache. He didn't think anything was broken, though there was no doubt going to be a very large bruise all over his body.

"If it knocked you off the ladder then why is it now able to be so close to your head? It's in direct contact with your hair."

Harry was up in a flash, stories he had heard of wards that burnt a person to a crisp or ripped off body parts flashing through his head. Spinning on his heels, he took a few steps backward, cautiously eyeing the book.

It looked innocuous enough—thin and bound in black leather, with the edges of yellowed pages visible along the side. There was no subject on the spine or cover, but there _was_ a name on it, one that Harry read and reread several times, just to make sure he was seeing it right:

Tom Marvolo Riddle.

_

_

Author's Note: WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN, WOMAN?

*cowers* I-in the Resident Evil fandom, killing off a main character and helping the villian destroy all life on earth with a virus.

So yeah, can you tell I got sidetracked? Because I did. And I'm so sorry! You all gave me all these nice reviews and I made you wait for so long! I'm really, really sorry!

So, thank you all, so much! I'll try really hard to get the next chapter up sooner!

Anna


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